My dream of a desert

I told a friend yesterday that I have always had a desire to write. More than to be married, to have children, to be powerful or important, is the desire to create on the page and to be read. And yet, I have been so afraid of being ridiculous or even worse, a mediocre, redundant writer that I kept it secret, much like my earliest, furtive attempts to masturbate as a little girl. The act of writing is that close, that intimate and that primal to me. One writes without assurance of an audience. It is solipsism, it is vanity, it is self-indulgence to write. It is also a desire to create.

All weekend my goal was to put in the hours and work. I vegetated in front of the television instead. When I would think about getting up to write, Harry Potter would do something irresistible and I would lie back down. For me, it takes a stretch of at least four hours to get my mind in the state to let the words come, rather than, force them, like I do in these blog entries. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone but ideally, I need an afternoon or quiet evening. I need to find a way in.

Tim Burton was interviewed by Charlie Rose the other night and he said that his ideas come when he's just spacing out and doing nothing. He also doesn't use computers or cell phones or lead a life filled with normal obligations. He has the luxury of time to free his mind. My dream is of a desert where I have luxurious time to space out, (masturbate) and tack, tack, tack away at the keyboard.